The Gift Of My Thoughts
by Elysium66
Summary: She never told him how she had felt. She had been too scared. She had left it too late. With Draco unconcious in hospital and about to be moved to the Manor she leaves with his belongings a diary illustrating her thoughts on their relationship.
1. Swirling Ink and Recollections

_**Draco,**_

_**You once told me you never knew what I was thinking, how I felt. I always did find that rather ironic coming from you. I pondered those words so many times – I found it so hard to believe you truly wanted to know.**_

_**For some reason I felt I had be careful with you, I feared that if you only knew the truth, that one day you would change your mind. That you would decide I wasn't pretty enough, or smart enough, that I wasn't pure enough – that I just wasn't enough.**_

**_So I never did tell you. But you told me. You once said you both hated and loved me at the same time. I knew how you felt. I felt it too, and yet I never said it. I'm sorry, Draco. I am._**

_**It kills me to think of what you did for me. I, who accused you of indecision, made the wrong choice. And you, you who I feared would one day hurt me, saved me. You made your choice and sometimes I wish you hadn't.**_

_**If ever you read this, if ever you awake and read this, if you still remember me and even if you don't; I need you to know that I love you. I hate you and I love you.**_

_**But I do love you, and to prove it…**_

A solitary tear stole down the hollow of her cheek, splattering onto the wet ink of the page where it pooled over one loopy letter letting its blackness bleed into the parchment. The quill in her shaking hand stilled as her body fought to control the shuddering bleakness that threatened to overtake her.

Her bleary gaze scanned the inscription page at the front of her diary, tracing the dark curves of her penmanship. Writing in it had always brought her clarity and contentment – now it served only as a painful reminder of all she had gambled and lost.

Its worn pages were filled with her thoughts, her life was in that diary – he was in that diary. Her anger, her frustration, lust and admiration for him bled through the pages. Everything she never told him.

The girl laughed bitterly at the thought, recalling how he had first come to grace those pages.

_They had both been Heads of the school, reluctant to be civil in any capacity. Heated arguments and veiled threats had bounced between the two. Oh, how she had hated him. At the same time, however, and much to her irritation, a grudging respect had formed. He may have been a git but he was an intelligent git nonetheless. _

_She had quickly learnt how considerably she had underestimated his intellect. Somehow their arguments had developed into long discussions and intense debates. They had by no means bonded over these talks and their mutual hatred for one another had not been alleviated._

_In truth it was more the idea of the other that they had disliked, for honestly, they had known so little of one another as to warrant loathing in its purest form. How could a person truly hate someone they did not know? Slowly, though, those feelings too passed. _

_They discussed books and music and politics. Neither was eager to admit the extent of which they thrived on those stimulating dialogues – for in that regard they were most definitely equal. _

_Despite insisting they could care less about one another, neither could resist the urge to scan any room they entered for a familiar pair of cerulean grey or chocolate brown eyes, respectively. _

_There had been something deliciously thrilling about their secret interactions. She was never quite sure when she had stopped loathing him entirely. In any case, she had. She could have consulted the swirling ink-filled pages of her diary to establish that, but even then she was not sure it was truly definable._

_Somehow the days had blended and her feelings of contempt and frustration had dissolved into curiosity and intrigue, which in turn became something else entirely._

The girl closed her eyes, attempting to halt the salty pearls which threatened to track down her cheeks. She recalled the first time he had kissed her;

_They has been arguing, as they always were, nothing would change that. They had been standing very close to one another, each taking turns to yell in indignation about some trivial issue. His vastly more imposing stature had done nothing to intimidate her. Stubborn as she was, she never knew when to back down. _

_So he kissed her._

_Suddenly, swiftly and surprisingly gently considering the rage his demeanour had expounded mere seconds before. He had later told her it had been instinctive – the only way he could think of to shut her up. Needless to say; it had worked. _

_In the months that came to pass there had been more yelling and more kissing. It seemed for the two of them those actions were intrinsically linked. She remembered his touch; and the way his feather light caress could make her ache and whimper. And he too would dissolve into gelatinous incoherence when sated._

_Oh, how she hated him, hated that he had that effect on her, hated the irony that it was Draco-bloody-Malfoy and not someone else – anyone else. But mostly she hated the fact that she loved him, painfully at times. But she had never told him that._

_Fear had that effect on people. And she had had much to fear. She had feared what he would have said in response. Feared he would tell her he did not love her. Feared he would tell her he did. This was a man that fate had cruelly destined to be the one she would always want and could never possibly have. Not in the way she would have hoped, not in the way she could have had someone else._

_After all, what would it have mattered if he had loved her in the end? She was Harry Potter's best friend; he was Lucius Malfoy's only son. They lived in a world where the line in the sand was cast; good and evil._

_She had always known her place, where she belonged, where she wanted to stand. He, on the other hand, was caught in the middle of a war he did not believe in. In truth he cared not whether the entire Order of the Phoenix (and with particular vindictive pleasure; Harry, died). Though he would not have been the one to raise his wand and utter the curse. _

_And so they had been left – a pureblood and muggleborn – in quite the predicament. She had known the struggle he fought with her heritage. She had also known that despite his views on the purity (or lack thereof) of her blood it had not halted his feelings for her._

_But that had been very well when secured within the cushioned parameters of the castle; beyond those secure walls it would have been very different indeed._

_And that was why she had ended their affair._

_It had been on the night of their graduation ball. Her and her fellow sevenths year students were official graduates of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They had graduated to the real world, and she had known she would not have been able to cope with seeing what they had had being destroyed in that kind of volatile environment._

_She had thought it better kept as a perfect and untarnished memory. She had thought she could escape then, before she got hurt. Oh, how naïve that notion had been. They had argued – their last argument – but there had been no feverish kisses and impassioned responses to follow. No. Instead there had been tears. It seemed she had not saved herself from the pain._

_He had been shocked, _she recalled; _winded rather than angry at first. As though he had been punched in the gut, it was a wrenching kind of pain. She had known because she had felt it too. _

_He had almost laughed at what must have seemed to him to be a highly ironic situation._

'_I fucking love you,' he had said, still reeling from shock. 'Where the fuck have you been for the last year, Granger? Was it just me? Was I in this on my own?' _

_His voice had broken slightly as his anger had dissipated; giving way to weary disbelief as he frantically dragged his hand through his hair. 'Dear God, was I?' He had whispered, as though to himself._

_She had only managed to choke out a feeble apology before fleeing the room, lest her anguished tears betrayed her._

_She had felt his presence in the Great Hall that whole night. Merlin, how it had nearly killed her. Time had passed in a blur and so she could barely recollect the moment when her world had began to come apart at the seams._

_There had been no warning. No clue. Death Eaters had just erupted into the Great Hall, wands at the ready. There had been no time to think as the screams and shouts of curses both offensive and defensive had echoed in the vast space. _

_She knew not whether it had been minutes, hours or days since their arrival when that one moment had stilled and the very edges of her world began to fray. The pixelated image seemed to run slowly in her mind. _

_There had been a laugh from behind her, a wand raised and a curse muttered and then blocked by the lithe, black robed figure which had suddenly shielded her. He had raised his hand grazing her cheek. His steely gaze had softened and held hers before his body slumped._

_Her heart rate had stopped and her blood had run cold. Gazing up at the culprit, a witch who by that stage had looked horrified at having accidentally cursed the son of one of Voldemort's leading henchmen, she retaliated before crumbling in a heap beside him._

_She had laid her head on his chest, shaking violently before she felt the faint thud of his heart beat. _

The girl took in a steadying breath before gazing across the clinical little room to where he lay prostrate in the white, hospital linens, still unconscious. That night had been a little over a month ago and she was still unsure as to how she had managed to get the two of them out of Hogwarts alive. All she knew was that luck and determination had seen her drag the dead weight of his body, ducking curses that had not been aimed at her, until she had reached the grounds and eventually the first point from where she could apparate them to safety.

And so there he was, and there he had been for the last 32 days. Asleep. At peace; she hoped – for she would not wish on anyone the anguish and turmoil that stewed within her. The war was over and tomorrow Draco Malfoy would be taken back to Malfoy Manor where he would receive further care under the watchful eye of his widowed mother Narcissa.

She knew she would never see him again and gasping for oxygen at the thought, she felt a final tear slide down her chin before dropping on to the open page. She dipped the quill into the jar of ink once more and wrote the last lines of her letter before sealing the diary and burying it at the bottom of his trunk. Approaching his form she placed a silver key locket around his neck, pausing to brush a strand of hair off his forehead before running from the room.

She thought about that final goodbye. The words which had been smudged by tears, though still legible had read;

…_**Draco, I give to you the gift of my thoughts.**_

_**Yours Now and Always**_

_**Hermione**_


	2. As Footfalls Echo

The echo of his footsteps seemed to reverberate endlessly as he walked, without purpose, through one of the many cavernous hallways that found residency in the Manor. That sound was not familiar. He pondered, as he had taking to doing of late, whether he had always been aware of the vast emptiness of this house that seemed to swallow him. Had it ever bothered him?

The footsteps slowed to a stop just outside the entrance to the expansive Dining Hall. Empty. Just as all the corridors had been, just as the library and main living areas had been. Empty.

This was how it had been for the last two days. Empty. He was not sure which part he was referring to – merely the house? Or his life? The greatest tragedy of it all was that he could not answer that question. He truly did not know.

It had been a week to the day since his 'awakening'. Five days of staring blankly at the wall opposite his bed. Wondering. Two days of walking listlessly through a house, that could well have been someone else's. Pondering. Seven days of questioning.

And to no avail. His questions only ever served to deliver more questions. None it seemed, that anyone was willing or able to answer. Sure, he still had a sense of self; essentially, he knew who he was, who his family were. Yet there were many pieces that seemed not to fit.

The healer had informed him that he was experiencing a form of 'trauma-induced amnesia.' According to the bumbling fool's diagnosis, it was likely he had experienced something far too _painful_ for his mind (and body) to cope with, and so he had created a mental block of sorts.

He had also been told, in a patronisingly _comforting_ tone, that he need not worry and push himself too much, that there was a very high likelihood his memories would begin to filter back of their own accord.

His mother had been suitably and duly concerned, sitting, at times, in a chair near his bed whilst he was still immobile. She said very little in those hours. Her relief, however, had been clear. The loss of both husband and son would have been too much to bear.

Raking a long-fingered hand through his platinum locks in agitation, he wondered, and hoped, really, that this was not all there was for him. His gaze swept the expanse of the lavish décor of the room he had just entered; his bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished; the wooden frame of the bed was richly dark and complimented by black bedding and curtains each lined with green satin. The Malfoy crest had been cast into the centre of the fabric like a tattoo. It was a quintessentially Slytherin room.

Oh yes, he knew he had been a Slytherin. All the Malfoys had been. And yes, he had known all about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - at least on paper. It was almost as though he had read the book of his life through someone else's eyes and discovered whole chapters missing; pages here and there which had been edited out in a screening process.

He did not feel as though he himself had lived that life. Things that should have given him comfort, people that he knew, that he remembered; seemed out of reach. He felt as though he was drowning in the watery unfamiliarity of this new world and his head could not break the surface. He felt no air in his lungs.

He was just walking. Just walking in this empty house; this empty life.

The boy was tired of waiting for distant memories to resurface. Tired of wanting to know what had happened. It had been just under three months since the 'incident' - or so he had been informed. That equated to nearly two and a half months of his life that had been surgically removed without remorse or concern for the shell that was left behind.

Lashing out in frustration, he kicked the dark wood of his armoire, succeeding in nothing more than to injure himself and only increase his level of infuriation.

He needed to get out. He had to escape the house with its dark shadows and empty corridors. He needed to gulp in a long lungful of fresh, clear air; air that was not polluted with reminders of what he longer knew.

Several hours later, he wandered the cobblestone path of Diagon Alley. It had not been difficult escaping the confines of his prison; his home. His mother had become somewhat reclusive and, after she had ascertained that he was indeed alive, had gone into hibernation somewhere within the Manor.

He remembered Diagon Alley. He could recall strutting down its length with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle; his goons, he supposed they would be called. And Parkinson. His expression turned somewhat distasteful as he recalled the girl's increasingly irritating _attraction_ to him. That term, however, could have been deemed too tame to be accurate.

They had been his friends; his minions - had there been a difference? He thought it unlikely.

It was barely still daylight and the shopkeepers were preparing to close their stores as a sleepy lull settled over the normally bustling bazaar. A sliver of sunlight fought in a feeble attempt to break its way through the darkening cluster of clouds, which had begun to form overhead.

That was when he saw her. For reasons unknown to him, the girl's face sharpened in focus whilst all others seemed to dissipate in the picture before him. She looked up and her almond eyes widened. She stopped still, as though afraid to move. Clearly, she knew him. Whether he knew her, he was not sure.

He must have. The sweep of her neck and the untamed spirals of her hair seemed familiar - as though from a dream or a photo he had once seen. _Did_ he know her?

Quite suddenly, and without any real understanding of why he did so, his lips mouthed one word.

_**Mudblood**_

He must have known her, why else would he presume to call some stranger on the street a mud blood when they could easily have been as pure as he?

But no. Her face had crumpled, her lip trembling. The delicate skin of her eyelids slid down to shield her gaze as her lashes cast shadows on the hollows of her cheeks. She seemed to suck in an inordinate

amount of oxygen.

He felt ill. He did not know why, but something had clenched in his stomach. Guilt? No, Malfoys did not feel guilt - at least he himself had always refused to. Yet this strange girl made him almost want to repent for any and all crimes (had he committed any - in truth he was not sure) just to stop the moisture from building behind her dark and haunting eyes.

However, she fled.

He stood there for a while longer; staring at the spot where she had been standing, long after she had departed. He ignored the darkness, which had enveloped him, holding him in its soothing embrace. He ignored the splash of liquid silk, which danced on his shoulders and melted into pools of moisture between the cracks of stone at his feet.

That strange girl… who was she? And more importantly still, who was he?

She was running. Where? She knew not. All she could do was focus on the slap of her feet hitting the pavement, the erratic beat of her heart, which for a while stopped entirely. She could not breathe.

Coming to a ragged halt, the dark haired girl pressed her open palm against the side of the building she stood before. Not recognising it her head snapped around in search of any identifiable landmarks. There were none as far as she could see. Blinking profusely, she tried to hold the salty tears at bay.

She was lost. More lost than she had ever felt before. Panting for air, she felt her body slide down the side of the decrepit building. She stared straight ahead after having calmed her body into breathing properly once more.

To observers it would seem as though she was in a trance of sorts. But no. She was watching all those moments roll by on a ream of old film. Black and white. It was a montage of every key point in her life, which had led her to where she was seated - on the footpath. It was the last scene, she knew, that would haunt her forever.

_**Mudblood**_

She shivered visibly. She had been so shocked to have seen him vital and alive and sharing the same space, the same oxygen as her. Yet they were worlds apart.

She knew not what to think. Did he remember everything? If he did and that was his response… the thought crushed her. She could not bear to think that he was somewhere out there thinking badly of her.

Yet if he did not remember, if he recalled her only as Granger and not as Hermione then maybe it was for a reason. Maybe after everything that had happened, he could not stand to think of her, to revel in their memories. Such a notion was ripping her apart.

She had not even known that he was awake. The Daily Prophet had not reported anything at all about the Malfoys other than to note the death of Lucius, renowned Death Eater.

How long had he been conscious and walking around? _Oh, Lord._ She could not handle the gut wrenching and twisting tremors that echoed through her body. Clearly, it was what he wanted. No more of them. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. Over

Truly over this time. She knew that she had been the one to break up with him, to deny her feelings, to lie. And because of her stupidity, her naivety and pure selfishness he had been injured in the first place.

Sighing deeply she let the last pearls of moisture roll gently down the contours of her cheekbones. She would let him go. She would let him live his life; knowing that he would walk the same stretch of path as her and look at the same sun streaked sky each evening before it melted into inly blackness.

She could not touch him, kiss him, or merely stand in his presence. She would not feel his warm breath on her neck or hear his over confident drawl hang in the air once more.

Shaking the reminiscent thoughts, which could well have signalled her end, from her head, she stood up and after receiving directions to Kings Cross, she headed on her way.

She had not decided what she wanted to do with her life. Although she had finished school months ago, she had not found it in her self to make that decision. It was so lazy and so unlike her. However, she

had been quite numb not knowing.

But now she knew. She had to get away. Away from everything that was the same. Every shared space. She had to get away.


	3. Questions Without Answers

The music swelled into an upsurging crescendo, a current of colour and sound, as the pianist reached his peak. His final notes absorbed by the emergence of polite society paying their respects to his haunting number. The Maestro supplied an eloquent bow before resuming his position as entertainment provider for the evening.

One glance around the room would make it clear that this was a social event of considerable proportions. Young girls flittered about the expansive rooms looking shiny and polished in their finely stitched dress robes. Their doe-eyed expressions had been the down fall of many a rich wizard.

These aforementioned men had arrived in droves; prepared to share the fruits of their business acumen, to network, but also in the hopes of partaking in the decadent delights on offer. It was truly an opulent affair.

The soft light from the crystal chandeliers glowed romantically as it reflected off the highly polished mahogany boards; tickled the rims of the exquisite hand-made Elvin glassware from which the many beautiful debutantes sipped. Lush fabrics draped the vast walls and the ornate ceiling hypnotised those stray gazes, which would wander upwards to take in its beauty.

However, one young man was alas, not held captive by the sights and sounds before him.

Draco Malfoy watched the scene with no little amount of wonder. Indeed, it was all very familiar to him and yet he was unsure as to whether he had ever felt quite so out of place before.

Apparently, many of the young, covetous witches whose coquettish smiles indicated their intrigue and their interest did not quite agree. As a young and virile (he hoped) young man, he knew his own interest should have been piqued - but it was not. This too made him wonder.

He had spent the entire evening fielding the questions of curious minds and eager gossips asking after his health, both mental and physical. Of the latter, he asserted that he was indeed in good health, of the former he did not deign to respond.

The young man had managed to escape their vulture-like circles and had proceeded to observe from a secluded and darkened corner toward the back of the room, determined to find where in this cluster of indulgent personas he fit.

Draco was shaken from his inner sanctum by the light touch of a hand to his shoulder, a feminine touch. He turned his weary gaze to the girl: Pansy Parkinson. He raised a brow expectantly.

The slender girl sighed as she sat down next to him. There was a pregnant pause, as she appeared to be considering her words.

'Draco,' she tilted her head upward and a river of shiny dark hair fell across her shoulder, 'I don't even know what to say to you.' She smiled then, a saddened smile. 'I won't say I know what you're going through, I don't. But I… I want to, I suppose, is what I am trying to say.'

He turned his head to look at her properly and noted the moisture building in her cloudy blue gaze.

'I don't want to push or anything, but with your mother… the manor must be quite lonely. Just come and see me if you need to. Or I could come see you, just let me know okay?' She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek and he nodded.

Then he left, needing to escape the claustrophobia of what had apparently been his old life.

* * *

Only a few moments later Draco stalked through the doorway of his bedchamber, slamming the heavy door closed behind him. He felt caught up in his exhaustion, his frustration. He was drowning in his own torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions and questions. So many questions and so few answers - so few _real_ answers.

He felt like an artist's initial sketch. He was, at present, the two dimensional portrait of a man. No form, no flesh. He felt as though he had been existing for the last week with absolutely no purpose. _It stops now_.

He pounded his fist against the door, clenching his jaw as he ignored the surge of pain, which ripped through his forearm.

The young man stood there for several moments, breathing, before he stood upright and gazed sharply around the immense open space of the room. His gaze keen as it absorb the various armoires, wardrobes and other potential hiding places. He was searching for clues, for some hint at the void that now stood between who he was and whom he had been.

He started with the large, antiquated armoire in the far corner of the room. It had been one of his mother's favourite furnishings. Narcissa had loved the ornate carvings and smooth dark whorls. However, Draco had very little interest in its sentimental value at that precise moment. He checked through drawer after drawer, sifting through varied pieces of parchment all of no apparent importance.

Draco stilled for a moment and glanced up from the papers in his hand. _Photos_. He gazed around his room. There were no photos. Not a single one in his entire room. He felt hollow with the realisation.

Nevertheless, he renewed his search, moving away from the treacherously empty armoire to his wardrobe. This time, however, he did find something to intrigue him. A large leather trunk which had been pushed back into the far recesses of the wardrobe, ignored it would seem, for months.

He hauled the heavy inventory toward the edge of the bed, and sat eager to peruse. The lid came off leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Coughing at the powdery residue, he reached for the black fabric of his school robe, which had lain across the top of his belongings. Draco gingerly ran his fingers over the material, as though he were hoping to absorb the memories it contained with a mere touch.

He turned it over within his grip when his thumb brushed something hard beneath the fabric. Shifting the robe once more, he found the peculiar item pinned to the lapel. It was the Head Boy badge. He smoothed a finger over its shiny surface and felt an odd twinge engulf him. Draco stared hard at the small pin, knowing it to be a clue to something he desperately sought to find.

Gazing suspiciously at it one more time, he placed the robe on the bed before turning his attention once more to the trunk.

He found books in abundance. Texts for potions and transfiguration and charms all worn and used. Pages curling at the edges, a result of constant thumbing. Glancing back down he noticed another book, one he did not recognise. It was lodged carefully into the side of the trunk, almost as though it had been crammed in at the last moment. The black leather binding was soft, from hands constantly smoothing over the cover, he imagined.

As he flipped the mystery book over he noticed a lock and growled in frustration. Draco was just about to hurl it across the room when he took a closer look. It was silver filigree - very unusual for a lock, and not at all practical.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he fumbled for the key locket he had taken to wearing beneath his robes. According to his mother who had eyed it rather distastefully, it held no magical properties and that she was unaware as to how he had come to wear it in the first place.

Draco had, despite her protests, decided to keep it close. He may have been unsure of its purpose but had been very keen to find out. It appeared as though he was just about to.

Yanking the small chain from around his neck, he leaned over, allowing several overlong locks to fall gracefully across his eyes. He was quite unsure as to why his stomach was rife with the tingling sensations of nervousness and anticipation - in equal parts.

Fumbling clumsily with the lock, he felt it click. Draco hurriedly flipped to the inscription page and blinked.

_**Dear Draco,**_

****

An inscription to himself in someone else's handwriting had not been what he had anticipated. And it looked to be a girl's penmanship, no less. Eyes of darkened ash traced the neatly curved loops of the very feminine handwriting without actually absorbing the words.

Realising this when they spotted a few highly conspicuous words, Draco raked his gaze up and began to read it properly.

Mere moments later, when his gaze had hungrily traced the last curve of ink, he felt dizzy. His heart was racing as he stared at the page in disbelief. _Love? She spoke of love?_ His mind buzzed with questions. Who was this unusual character with the perfect handwriting? Better yet, how could what he read be true?

Draco Malfoy may not have been in reign of all his proper faculties, but he was quite sure that he would recall something, _anything_ that would verify her words. If it were real, would he not have remembered it? Would he not recall her taste and smell? He recalled nothing.

Despite his own questionable recollections, would someone else not have told him he had a girlfriend? In fact, would she not have been by his side?

He was truly bewildered.

Oh, he remembered having girls; their lithe and lissom bodies rolling with his in the dorm rooms; experimenting down by the Black Lake. _But love?_

Yet even in the midst of his incredulity and his cynicism, Draco knew that something in his life had changed him before that night. Something that caused him to view his world so differently to the way he had been brought up to.

And so he chose to turn to the next page of what was clearly this girl's journal.

Draco kicked off his shoes and arranged himself comfortably on the bed before he began to read.

_**September 3rd,**_

_**I suppose I should begin with an introduction as I am not quite sure how one writes in a journal. This (or should I say 'you'? Well that does sound a bit ridiculous since you are a Diary**_**_not an actual person) was a gift from my parents for becoming Head Girl, something to record my thoughts and experiences in, I suppose. To be perfectly honest I have always found journals to be overrated and more than a little self-indulgent. It is not as though I can get any emotional feedback for what I write in here. How and ever I shall strive to do my best - as always._**

****

Draco shook his head in a combination of disbelief and amusement at the inane ramblings of what was apparently the Head Girl - his counterpart, he thought, as he recalled the badge.

_**It is only our third night back at the castle and already the work is mounting. Why, just yesterday, I was discussing the transfiguration essay we received from Professor McGonagall and she said it was imperative to…**_

****

Draco unconsciously raised a brow whilst simultaneously rolling his eyes. Who in the name of Merlin was this 'Hermione' character? His eyes were glazing over after reading almost a page long documentary on the benefits of extra reading to one's studies.

He scanned the pages listlessly before he spotted something of interest:

…_**is not Head Boy material. Who in their right mind would appoint him over Ernie Macmillan or at the very least, one of the Ravenclaws? Draco Malfoy is a self-absorbed prat without the substance to justify his arrogance. The staff knows what he is like, what his family is like. He will no doubt graduate from Hogwarts straight into the Academy of Death Eaters - with honours. The wizarding world would be a far better place without that family of Pureblood puritans.**_

****

Infuriated, Draco threw the book across the room, gasping in a lungful of air with the sole aim being to calm his blood pressure.

He felt weak and sickened at the same time. _Who the fuck __**is**__ she?_


End file.
